Llednar's Rage
by Grammar Sage
Summary: In Ivalice, you can be given your heart's desire...


This oneshot fiction is dedicated to KupoKupoKupo, whose lighthearted fun makes this whole community a brighter place.

Disclaimer: Square owns FFTA. I do not own Square. I do not own FFTA.

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The blonde fighter brought both his swords down in a vicious sweep, both long broadswords carving through the air. His opponent was able to to block, with his SaveTheQueen out in a strong vertical parry. Blow for blow, Biskmatar and Paladin clashed like titans, holy energy against darkness. Then Marche leapt backwards, whirled both weapons in an intricate sweep while muttering a mantra, and struck. Holy energy exploded.

The force of the blow knocked both combatants backward. Marche paused, sure he had finished his enemy- a well-executed Holy Blade attack was powerful enough to remove _buildings_ as well as fighters.

Llednar Twem pushed himself up off the ground.

His royal clothes, once fine with silks and feathers, were now ripped and tattered beyond recognition. The blood-red of his Maximillian mixed with the scarlet leak of his numerous wounds. But his face was resolute. Fury, rage, and hatred shone like evil stars in his bloodstained face.

Marche shook his head slightly. "Don't get up, Llednar," he said. "Please."

With a grunt that was almost animal, Llednar got to his feet. "Don't patronize me," he growled in a voice far to deep to seem natural. "You're weak. Weak. And I'll kill you."

Marche almost seemed pitying as Llednar readied himself again for the fight. "Fine," he said tiredly, and brought his swords up again.

Llednar's emotions, always pumping with the rage and hate that were a tangible part of him, now hit overdrive. Through a red mist he charged toward Marche, blade high, concentrating darkness into a single, devastating blow...

"Get down, kupo!"

Marche dived to the ground without another thought. Behind him rose the small form of Montblanc, Black Mage extraordinaire, hands raised and a sparkling aura charged in his paws.

"Firagaaa!"

The bolt of superheated fire struck Llednar. It washed away his life, charring through his armor and clothes, blasting him backwards. He struck the ground heavily. His face, still contorted into a grimace of hate and pain, was turned a hideous red by the light of the fire. Montblanc held the spell for a full second longer, burning away at Llednar's recumbent form. Then he dropped his hands and stared toward the fallen Biskmatar.

Llednar's entire body was a prison of pain, but still, he managed to gasp, "No... no... I... cannot be beaten... by _you..._"

His body froze. The colors of his legs and lower torso slowly froze and faded into a stony gray. His trunk, head, and arms became slowly stone as well, then shattered and fell to the ground.

And Llednar Twem was dead, a broken statue, a testament to the triumph of Clan Nutsy.

Finished.

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_It was dark. Dark, very dark, the darkness of death._

_At least there was no pain._

And suddenly, illuminating the darkness, there was a figure. Crystal wings fluttered, blue light shone suddenly. And there, before Llednar's broken soul, was the Essence of Wishes, his creator.

She floated in front of him. Eyes of purest diamond regarded him intently. Then she spoke, although whether with real words or mere dream speech Llednar would never know.

"_I am the Granter. I am the Essence. I am the Purity. I am the Master of Wishes. And I have created you."_

Llednar tried to speak, and found that he could not. He was bound by strings of darkness, held tight by the web of death.

"_All living things wish."_ The Essence stopped, and her eyes became more searching. _"As do you, though you are but a mirror of another, created as a whim. For though you were but a pawn, you live. You strive. You hope. You _wish_..."_

Llednar struggled hard, but found he had no strength. All the power of a Biskmatar had left him. He had nothing, and wanted nothing...

But to take his revenge... it would be so _satisfying..._

"_But where a wish is, I am, and where I am, there is my power," _continued the Essence. _"And where my power is, I can always find an opening with which to use it."_

She moved closer. Llednar was looking straight into her eyes, down into endless depths, almost swallowing him whole.

"_Live," _she spoke again. _"Breathe. Think. Be granted this wish... to have your revenge..."_

She touched him, although she seemed not to have hands or even a real body to do it with. Her wings gave a slight tremor. And Llednar felt a strong warmth spread through him, a feeling of painful life...

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The broken statue had lain for several months. The royal valley was not a place frequented by many travelers. So no one saw Llednar return.

The broken pieces of the statue became fleshier, moving over the ground, fusing with their counterparts and combining together. They came together in the form of a young man, lying sprawled out on the ground, a broken sword and bloodied armor lying near him.

Llednar's eyes snapped open. His wounds, before serious enough to be lethal, were gone. His weapon and shattered Maximillian had both been taken taken off his body and were lying on a tile nearby.

Llednar looked around from his prone position. The tiles he lay on were no longer the pristine colors they had been, and weeds had sprung up between cracks in the pavement. The beautiful chapel-palace was no longer its glorious self- in fact, it looked as though no one had been into it for several months.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. His inner eye, magical sight, searched through the nearby area for signs of Prince Mewt or his Queen. Then he broadened the search, looking throughout many different places, the favorite royal haunts.

Nothing. Llednar could find no trace of his queen, or of the prince he had been the protector of this whole time. But, then again... did it matter now? What truly mattered?

He stood, shaking himself slightly, finding the power he had harnessed before. His eyes turned toward the valley's single exit, a large gateway. An iron grille blocked the way in and out, with several sentinel stations set at the top.

It had always been guarded in the old days, and Llednar guessed it was still guarded now... but now, why did that matter? What were a few guards?

Before, Llednar had had to abide by certain rules. The safety of the Prince, the protection of the palace, all these had been foremost in his mind. Now that Remedi was gone and Mewt disappeared- that left Llednar with one purpose, one searing-hot desire in his mind.

Marche. The bane of his life, the one he had tried to kill so many times... and now, with nothing in his way, he could succeed.

He raised his hands. Normally he would have to use a weapon to do this, but still, it was possible without it...

Utter, pure darkness, the negative of Ultima magic, flowed into his hands, concentrating in his palms. He let it flow freely, not trying to keep it under control like he had before. There was no reason to. The river of surging power buoyed him up, carried him on midnight wings, letting him harness it.

He closed his eyes, smirking slightly- then let fly.

The Omega shook the turf like a nuclear bomb. The massive surge of darkness swept through the gates, shredding stonework, eating through steel beams. The entire gateway was blown several feet forward. Then it rocked back on its own momentum, tipped slowly, and collapsed.

Llednar strode through the wreckage of the gates. Sure enough, there had been a few guards inside it. With his enhanced Biskmatar senses, he could feel their life draining away, hear their final breath.

Llednar grinned. How he'd wished to use his power, all these years. And now, Marche would see his _true_ might, the power of a Biskmatar.

He walked over to a body, half-hidden in the wreckage. Reaching down, he pulled the fallen guard's sword out of its sheath.

"It will do..." he muttered to himself, giving the Defender an experimental twist. "For now... for what I need."

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It was a dark and stormy night, with mists swirling around in the rain and thunder shaking the walls. The Sprohm gatekeeper pulled his coat closer around him and huddled up near his little fire. From the dark recesses of his clothing he removed a cigar.

"S' a cold night, sure enough..." he muttered to himself, trying to light the cigar with one hand. "With me, poor ol' Tom havin' to sit out in it and keep the gate..."

The cigar finally lit. With a sigh of satisfaction, Tom sat back, and placed the worn home-made in his mouth.

Then someone knocked, hard, and Tom nearly swallowed it. "Jus' a minute!" he called frantically, and stuffed the cigar back into his coat. Grumbling and hobbling, he pushed himself out into the rain and in front of the gate.

"Aye? What do you need?" On a normal night, Tom would have merely opened up at the sound of the knock. But in weather like this, it paid to be careful. You could get all sorts, coming down from the hills and stables.

Tom peered through the slot in the wall. A handy flash of lighting illuminated the other man's face. He was young, very young. Two rather red marks on each cheek made him look even younger than he was. But what made Tom nervous was the naked sword the man was holding in one hand.

"I wish to come in." It was a simple statement, but the way it was spoken sent shivers down the gatekeeper's spine.

"Um... uh... beggin' your pardon, Guvn'r," said Tom, trying to stay as respectful as possible, "but we don't allow weapons through here, see. You can just hand your weapon through this slot, and I'll take it, and when you leave the city you can 'ave it back. New law, see."

This was not, in fact, true. But the gatekeeper was not a stupid man, and he knew that letting in strangers with swords led to trouble.

The man seemed to consider this for a moment. "No. I'm afraid that will not do. Let me through anyway."

"Uh, um... I can't, see. Not allowed to."

"Let me through. I will not say it again."

Tom considered this. He most definitely did not want to disobey Llednar. Then again, he didn't want to open the gate and have the man in with him. And, after all... they had a large, strong gate between them. And if there was more trouble, he could ring the bell and the whole town would come down on this invader's ears.

"Um, no, I don't think I can, beggin' your pardon. But if you just hand in that there sword-"

"I am _Llednar Twem,_ bodyguard to His Highness Prince Mewt and assistant to Her Highness Queen Remedi. _Let me pass._" Llednar's tone was hardly threatening, but the critical emphasis he put on certain words put an invisible "or else" on the end of the sentence.

Tom's eyebrows knotted in confusion. He, like everyone else, had heard the rumor that Llednar Twem was dead- and with the tattered clothes and mist, this young man could pretend to be basically anyone.

"Look," he said desperately. "You can come in if you just let me have your sword there-"

"No." The young man shook his head slightly. "Very well. I had hoped to avoid this, but it seems that all the world is contrary to me now."

And then he disappeared. Tom blinked, gave a cough, looked around... but the man had disappeared with a blink of imploding air.

"Behind you."

Tom spun around, eyes wide. The young man stood like a wraith of death, mist spreading off him, a faint smile on his face.

"You can't be a good gatekeeper, old man, if you don't let people _in_. That's your job..."

"Hey- wait a minute-" Tom backed away, waving his hands frantically, and found he had backed up into the wall.

There was a red glint in Llednar's eye. "Do you know how to deal with people who don't do their job?"

"Now, now, wait-"

"You _remove_ them."

Llednar threw his blade. It hurled it through the air with a noise like tearing silk, shredding the air. The Defender struck Tom like a thunderbolt, sliced through him, and slammed him into the wall. The impact shattered the blade into several pieces, but the broken hilt and crosspiece pinned the gatekeeper to the wall in a lethal embrace.

Llednar watched for a moment. Then walked forward, grabbed the reverberating remains of the greatsword, placed his boot against the wall, and tugged it free. The old man's body slumped to the ground.

Paying no attention to the corpse, Llednar inspected his broken weapon with disgust. "And _now _ I must get a new sword. It is all too vexing."

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The blacksmith was still at work, even on such a blustery night. He was carefully studying a piece of parchment while sharpening a wicked-looking greatsword.

Llednar didn't bother with knocking this time, but pulled open the door and stood in the entrance. Lighting made a dramatic silhouette against the woodwork.

The blacksmith didn't look up. "Here for the special sword, are ye?" he asked, still keeping his eyes on the blade in front of him as he sharpened it on the stone wheel.

"I am merely here for the best weapon you have to offer."

The blacksmith, unfazed, just shrugged. "You a member of Clan Nutsy?"

"No."

"Then you'll just have to pick out of the normal merchandise." The blacksmith jerked his head toward the racks of weapons on the walls. "This one's for Nutsy. It took some specialties to make it- I promised to have it done by tonight. It's a beauty." He held the sword up to inspect it by the firelight. Llednar saw that it was a large, two-handed greatsword, make of some dark metal he didn't recognize.

"I'm calling it the Eclipse, since it was forged during a solar eclipse," said the blacksmith. He grinned. "Never seen anything as wicked as this is. It's a danger, that's a fact."

Llednar's eyes had lit up slightly, as he inspected the blade with dark mirth. "Yes. It is beautiful." Llednar ran his fingers along the leather hilt, ran them around the pommel, and up the blade. Holding his palm vertical, he brought the sword across it.

The razor-sharp blade cut into his palm, yet barely left a mark.

"Cut yerself?" The blacksmith said, raising an eyebow.

"A rag will not be necessary." Llednar clenched his fist, concentrating slightly. A swirl of power played lightly around his hand, and the cut healed.

"However, your workmanship is excellent."

Then Llednar shouldered the blade and turned to leave.

The blacksmith was suddenly in front of him, smiling slightly. "Hey, now, just put the sword down. I know how seeing a blade with that caliber can turn a boy's head. Just set it down and we'll say no more about it, aye?"

Llednar sighed. "And I thought we could do business so well." He swung the sword down off his shoulder, feeling the weight and feel of the blade and grip. "You must give me this sword. I wish to use it."

The man in front of him smiled slightly, and reached behind him toward one of the racks of weapons. He withdrew a gray, heavy longsword, with an iron hilt and an edge that gleamed in the light.

"Now, I spent quite a lot of my days fighting as a Paladin for the Palace," he said in an easy tone. "And, you know, I'm really quite good. They called me "Mad Simon," in fact, because of how I could get. So I'd appreciate it if you'd just put the sword down before anything gets messy."

Llednar simply smiled, switching the blade from palm to palm with ease.

"And if I do not?"

"Well, then I may well get a little bit physical," replied the blacksmith, apparently known as Simon.

Llednar nodded sadly, and turned as if to set the sword down on the bench. "Well... Simon... I suppose that's that, then."

Then he spun, pivoting on his heel and bringing the Eclipse around in a wicked curve.

The blacksmith had been alert, and he brought his Hardedge up in a stong blocking position. But then, to his horror and surprise, Llednar had merely switched his grip and flicked the greatsword down. Simon leapt back to avoid the scything blade, and the weapon traced a scarlet line across his shins.

Llednar was laughing now. "Well done!" he said, grinning fiendishly. "You must be good... you're still alive!"

Then the Biskmatar raised a palm in front of him, smiled- and a flash of lighting lit up the shop and made the blacksmith blink. When he looked again, Llednar had disappeared.

A thunderclap punctuated the sudden silence.

The blacksmith looked around, checked to see if the boy was under a table or behind the anvil. He opened his door, still keeping his eyes on the shop. Then he limped out into the stormy night-

Something was in his way.

"Why, hello again," said Llednar, smiling faintly. Then, before the blacksmith could react, he grabbed a brawny arm and hurled it. Simon flew over Llednar's shoulder and landed with a heavy thud on the cobblestones outside.

Llednar laughed, letting the power flow to him again, controlling it. He could do anything now, with no fear of consequences. He was Llednar Twem, servant to none, Biskmatar and destroyer.

Simon got to his feet, and he still had his sword. But now there was a calculating, careful look in his eyes. He bowed his head and held both hands in a cross shape on his chest. Auras of energy surrounded him, laying themselves like a shimmering blanket.

Llednar just laughed. "Ah, Protect, a very useful ability in times of trouble." His face lost its happy, young look. "And so is this."

The Biskmatar spun, whirling the new sword about like a baton, then he plunged it into the ground. Fissures of energy crackled, then blew out and up. The Ripcircle attack blasted outwards, picking up paving stones and throwing them like huge bullets.

Simon dived to the ground, bringing his hands around to cover his head. The Ripcircle smashed into him and rolled him across the town square. His sword flew from his hand, whirled through the air, and imbedded itself in the ground. A large cobblestone landed with a sickening crack next to him.

But Llednar didn't stop. He continued to pour energy into the attack, expanding it further. Now the Ripcircle was a brighter hue, a rippling dome of power, moving outward and onward.

Llednar laughed. And the Ripcircle blew open like an energy bomb. Houses sagged, the walls cracked, and Sprohm itself shuddered. One of the inn's walls collapsed outwards. Several people screamed. An old man tumbled out of a window of his ruined house. Somewhere, a baby started crying.

Simon's weapon was gone, and his breathing was ragged and hard. He got unsteadily to his feet.

"Oh, are you finished?" This came from Llednar. His eyes were shining with dark power. "I was enjoying myself."

"You... you...how..." That was all the broken blacksmith could get out before he sank down to the cobbles. His chest was burned and seared from the energy attack, his face burned raw.

Llednar frowned. "Me what? Oh, come now, you waste your last words on insults?" He strode forward, putting a slender yet obscenely strong hand under Simon's chin. "Tell me, what are you trying to say?"

The blacksmith said nothing, just gasped for breath. Llednar's lip curled. "Weak. Only one blow and you're broken." He removed his hand and let Simon's head drop.

Then he punched the blacksmith in the jaw, with one fluid uppercut. Simon must have weighed two hundred pounds of muscle and sinew, but Llednar knocked him a full two feet off the ground. As the fallen blacksmith hit the ground, Llednar gripped the hilt of his stolen sword and began to swing-

"Don't touch him!"

Llednar stopped, hand on weapon, a faint smile still playing on his lips. From the broken tavern had piled out most of the guests- and among them was a blonde Paladin, holding two Excalibers, shirtless and wearing striped pajamas. A moogle, still in bedclothes, stood behind him with a rod in hand.

"It is nice of you to join me. I had hoped to kill you tonight." Llednar's face was still set in a sneer, but there was a triumphant look in his eyes. The rain and wind whipped around his face, curling his blonde hair into tendrils.

If Marche hadn't already drawn his swords, he would have done so now. "Leave these people alone," he growled, motioning toward the other townspeople and other innmates. "This is between you and me, you understand?"

Llednar held his blade several inches above Simon's prostrate form. "Would you give yourself up?"

Marche hesitated, looking from the smiling Llednar to the crowd behind him. "Don't do it, kupo," muttered Montblanc from behind him.

There were women and children in the crowd. And Marche knew, with chilling certainty, that Llednar would kill them without another thought.

"Yes."

"Aw, no, kupo..."

Llednar laughed. "You give up that easily? How enjoyable. Your swords, please. No, don't walk toward me. Throw them."

Marche hurled both Excalibers. They landed with a clang at Llednar's feet.

"And the moogle's rod, as well."

Marche opened his mouth to protest, and the Biskmatar brought back his foot and gave Simon's fallen frame a vicious kick. The crack of broken bone echoed through the town square.

Marche had gone white, but he turned toward his moogle companion. "Please, Montblanc. Just do it."

Montblanc looked from Marche's face to Llednar, and bowed his head in submission. "All right, kupo. Just don't get us killed."

Montblanc's Heretic Rod landed next to the swords.

"Now leave them alone," Marche demanded.

"Oh. Yes. That was the bargain, was it not?" Llednar mused over this for a moment. "No. I don't think I will. That wouldn't be any fun."

"What!" Marche started forward, and Llednar nodded. "Yes, attack me. Go ahead. You have no weapon, no element of surprise. I may even kill you quickly if I enjoy myself."

Marche stopped. Llednar wasn't smiling now, but he had fixed Marche with a horribly intense expression.

Then Llednar whirled his blade, and swung hard. The blast of darkness he expelled had no name, no reservation, just a smooth expulsion of power. Energy surged toward the crowd to detonate in their midst with a rumble. Several screams echoed momentarily, abruptly cut off as the darkness took hold.

Marche cautiously raised his head from where he lay. Around him, the villagers and most of the inmates were scattered to the ground. Most of them were merely unconscious... but as he looked, he knew some would never move again.

Montblanc stood up, staring at Llednar with a mixed expression of horror and fear. "He... he could never do anything like that before, kupo..."

"You are incorrect," Llednar said, looking straight at Montblanc. Thoughts of their final battle rose in the little moogle's mind. "I could have destroyed you, the weak scum that you are. But I was not able to use my power to the full of my abilities- that would have put His Highness in danger. It would have put everyone in danger."

"So now, just because you have nothing to lose, you can just do anything you want?" Marche made a move toward his weapons. "Do you think the people will stand for that?"

"He's right." This statement came from behind Marche and Montblanc. A Ninja, who Marche recognized as being one of the inn's customers, had managed to stay upright. "I'm not gonna stand by and watch you hurt innocent people."

Several others had also survived the blast with their consciousness, and they too were drawing weapons. A Blue Mage allowed the Ninja to lean on his shoulder. A large Alchemist, who seemed to have not brought his mace, lumbered up beside where Montblanc stood. And a small, battered Moogle Knight (looking less fierce because of the teddy-bear pajamas he was wearing) drew his blade and stared defiantly at Llednar.

The Biskmatar just smiled, in a very annoying manner. "Well, look, you've got a little army." He shifted the Eclipse from hand to hand. "I could kill you all right now."

"But you won't, kupo." This came from Montblanc. "As you just said, 'that wouldn't be fun'."

"Hark to the moogle!" Llednar laughed. "And he's right. I would find no... enjoyment from simply destroying you all with my powers."

Llednar's eyes shifted from one fighter to the other.

"But I also tire of mere speech." Llednar shifted to a fighting stance, both hands on the large weapon. "So, can we begin? Or must I start killing you off now?"

The Alchemist held one hand high. "I declare an official enga-"

Shluucc!

Llednar was suddenly in front of the Nu Mou, the battle gleam in his eye. The Eclipse was stained with far more red than it had before. One hand was pressed against the Alchemist's back, and the other hand was holding the Eclipse he had just swung.

"Now, now, no calling of Judges. Then no one could die- and that certainly isn't any fun..."

Llednar gave the Nu Mou's body a push, and the Alchemist fell forward. His head rolled several feet farther.

Marche had seen cruelty and death. You could find both of these things in a Jagd. But what spurred him into action was the malicious _peace_ in Llednar's face as he had swung the blade, almost so fast it was impossible to see, severing the Nu Mou's neck, stoppering life.

Marche's eye fell on the Hardedge, still lying where Simon had dropped it.

Llednar saw it too... but too late. Marche dove, rolled on the hard stones, and grasped it just in time. Llednar's blade shattered cobblestones behind him.

Marche rolled to his feet, sword gripped tightly in his hands, and swung. The two greatswords connected in midair, then both fighters stepped back momentarily.

Marche pressed his opponent back while swinging the huge sword with all his strength. Llednar was no longer smiling, but snarling while parrying Marche's vicious attack. The two clashed like titans, smashing into each other with ridiculous force.

Montblanc and the three other fighters closed in. The moogle mage muttered a quick spell and gestured toward the blonde Paladin. Time magic swirled around Marche, and his movements became faster, equalling and surpassing Llednar's speed.

For a moment it seemed like Llednar was finished. As the Ninja and Moogle Knight closed in and Marche pressed Llednar harder, the Biskmatar's face became grim and angry, like a boar brought down momentarily by hounds.

But then the moogle and both humans were thrown back by a ripple of energy. Llednar swung his blade around, sharp blades of energy cutting the air about him. Marche landed heavily on his rump. Llednar actually smiled and leaned on his blade for a moment.

"Coward! Fight without your special powers!" Marche shouted, getting to his feet. "You think you can prove yourself with your own personal abilities?"

Llednar's gray eyes flashed for a moment. "Why on earth would I do that? I don't want to prove myself, idiot."

Now Marche's eyes lit up slightly- he had seen, behind Llednar, his loyal moogle friend moving up behind Llednar, preparing a critical Stop spell that would certainly mean victory. He instantly tried to keep Llednar's attention.

"Are you too cowardly to fight, then?"

Now Montblanc had fully prepared his spell, opened his mouth to chant the final mantra.

"Cowardly?" Llednar had been leaning on his blade, point-first into the cobbles, and he picked it up and looked at it lovingly. "I hardly call myself cowardly. Your moogle friend Hasted you, did he not? I see no reason why my powers are... 'cheating'."

As Llednar looked into the beatiful, black surface of the Eclipse, shining like a mirror in the moonlight, he caught a glimpse of what was behind him. The perfect smoothness of the blade acted like a dark mirror, and the face of a startled Montblanc showed up in the surface.

"Sto-" Montblanc began, and Llednar was gone. Not teleported, like before, but he had leapt backwards into the air and made an impressive backflip over the moogle behind him. Montblanc's spell missed completely, Stopping only a couple of innocent cobblestones. And then Llednar landed and gripped the Time Mage by his furry throat.

As Montblanc gurgled, Llednar held him out at arm's length like a drowned rat. "Ah, you see? You call me cowardly while preparing to strike from behind."

Marche was about to shout, "Don't you touch him!" but realized this was exactly what Llednar wanted. An evil, hating glint shone red in the Biskmatar's eye.

"You are not going to speak up for your friend?" Llednar looked disappointed. Montblanc had stopped gurgling, but his bloodshot eyes were beginning to roll back. "Ah, well, you do well to allow a _'coward'_ such as he to die. And I was beginning to think you were too soft."

And then, still smiling and staring at Marche, Llednar threw Montblanc into the air. Had the moogle been fully conscious he could have power-fluttered to safety- but the lack of oxygen had taken its toll and Montblanc went airborne like a limp and broken doll. Then, as he started back down, Llednar swung the sword like a baseball bat. The flat of the blade caught Montblanc on the back of the head with a _crack_, knocking the tiny moogle across the square and into the ground with punishing force.

Then Marche completely lost it.

With a primal, snarling scream, the blonde fighter propelled himself toward Llednar at almost inhuman speeds. His blade, although only a borrowed Hardedge, was certainly deadly enough to do serious damage. If Marche had been thinking clearly, he could have prepared and performed a good-sized Holy Blade attack- but as it was, something had snapped, and his goal was that of the ancient beast: to kill.

Again the blades met. This time Llednar was ready, and he calmly blocked, but then Marche's indomitable rage pushed the Biskmatar backward. Llednar began to lose ground. The two had their respective weapons locked, feet scrambling for purchase on the ravaged cobbles, faces both set into masks of anger and hate.

Llednar muttered under his breath, and again the dark energy swirled. A huge vortex of shadow began to gather around the blade, and Llednar chuckled and prepared to unleash the Omega, enough power to destroy a guard tower. Thunder rolled dramatically.

But this time, Marche's inpromtu allies were ready. The Ninja growled, spinning quickly and reaching into his gear. The hand came out holding a knife, which was thrown with snake speed toward Llednar's face. The Moogle Knight also gave a malicious grin as he stabbed his blade out in the famous Moogle Lance attack. Llednar was forced to abandon his Omega spell to save himself, and instead dived far back. The knife went inches over him, and the Moogle Lance ripped through the air next to his ear, but Llednar rolled to a standing position unharmed. Now Marche was still pressing onward, huge blade swinging, face still set with pain and fury.

And Llednar backed up straight into the grinning Blue Mage.

Before the Biskmatar had time to react, the magician had his hands up around his mouth. He blew through a ring he made with his fingers and his breath became a poisonous green mist.

The Bad Breath spell surrounded Llednar, who gave a start. His sword, which he had been about to swing at the mage, he instead used to fan at the vapor. The mage kept blowing, and he was grinning while spewing the gas toward Llednar.

Llednar looked for a moment up at the Blue Mage's face and kicked hard. His boot struck the human's jaw, and there was a nasty crack. The magician collapsed, still holding his hands to his mouth.

And then Marche, who had been sprinting across the square this whole time, caught up to the two other humans. This time Llednar had almost no time to parry or ready himself. Marche's borrowed Hardedge came down, cut through the air, and Llednar's hasty parry only half-deflected it. The cut slid down the Eclipse's blade and bit into Llednar's right shoulder.

Marche's face was still raging, but triumphant. Llednar gave a little grunt of pain and twisted away. The greatsword tore out of his shoulder, leaving a hideous and gaping wound. The Biskmatar's arm hung limp, and he switched the blade to his left arm. A place in the street made slippery by the rain made for bad purchase on the ground, and Llednar slipped. He was on the verge of catching his balance when a wallop from Marche's swordhilt brought him to the ground.

The Ninja, Paladin, and Moogle Knight gathered around Llednar, weapons ready. Marche held his sword out at arm's length, the point pressed against the fallen Biskmatar's jugular vein, and his boot held the Eclipse to the ground.

Both humans stared at one another. Marche marveled at the courage Llednar showed- there was no space for fear or worry in the young man's features, but only contempt and hatred.

"Strike." Marche was surprised to hear this not from any of his allies but from his enemy. Llednar regarded him with a contemptuous stare. "Cut me down. Watch me die."

"And if you don't, kupo," growled the Moogle Knight, "I will. My mate Torrier was that Alchemist, and if you don't slit 'is throat, I'll be happy to let you keep your hands clean."

"No." Marche kept his eyes fixed on Llednar's hate-contorted face. "That's not the way we do things. Maybe he does, but we don't. Summon a judge, and we'll cart him off to jail."

"You intend to keep me alive?" Llednar didn't look surprised, but rather as if he had just been asked a stupid question.

"Under guard. And if necessary, chained to a stump inside a pit." Marche kept his swordpoint almost tight enough to draw blood. "But I don't intend to butcher you here, Llednar. I won't stoop that far."

Llednar smiled.

"Your mistake."

And then the Biskmatar's hand was a pale blur, moving backwards to where the Ninja was standing, reaching for one of the katanas. He gripped it by the blade, ignoring the deep slit it laid across his palm. In the milliseconds it had taken to grab the Ninja's sword, Marche stabbed forward. His blade would have struck true and killed the Biskmatar then and there, but Llednar whipped his head to the side and got away with a nasty throat cut. Then his hand had come all the way around, and the katana hilt struck Marche across his face.

From his prone position Llednar snapped upwards, performing a momentary handstand and propelling himself into the air with insane acrobatic and gymnastic strength. He went from flat on his back, holding the katana by its blade, to several feet away and holding his stolen sword correctly.

Marche picked up the Eclipse and threw away the heavy Hardedge. He stared in wonder at the incredible ability Llednar was using, but he was still unafraid and determined. "Fine..." he whispered, and Llednar detected the red tinge of rage at the edge of his eyes. "Have it your way. We can kill you now. I won't let you hurt anyone else."

Llednar held one hand to his throat to staunch the bloodflow, and he held the katana in his uninjured left arm, but he smiled. "I see that you understand now. But for now... my work here is done.

"Rest assured, Marche Radijuju, that we will meet again. And your compatriots will die one by one... as many as need be."

And before Marche could retort, a blinding flash of octarine light lit the square. And once it faded, Llednar was gone.

But his words still echoed around the square.

"_Rest assured... that we will meet again..."_

Marche held his sword tightly, and stared up at the rain. Many people had died, merely because of Llednar's twisted and grotesquely powerful whim. The shattered square and ruined town was probably only the beginning.

"Make it soon, Llednar," Marche whispered to the rain. "Because next time, I'll be ready."

Because he knew next time, he would have to be.

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Aye, longish oneshot. (Hope you managed to read this in one sitting, KupoKupoKupo.) I would have made it into two or three chapters, but then it wouldn't really be a oneshot anyway, would it?

I had great fun writing this, though. Drop me a review if you have time, my devoted readers. I would if I were you. Because Llednar's still out there, and he could be standing right... behind... you...

Thank you for reading.

-Sage


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